


Three's No Crowd

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Barebacking, Bottom Kraglin, Bottom Yondu, Cunnilingus, Dual Genitalia, Established Relationship, F/M, Face-Sitting, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Kraglin centric, M/M, Orgasm Denial, POWER BOTTOMS, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Service Top, Switching, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Kraglin, Top Yondu, Versatile Kraglin, Versatile Yondu, Yondu ain't dying, dom yondu, domme Nebula, sub Kraglin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 15:12:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Kraglin has a type. He only has himself to blame when he winds up with two emotionally constipated, overpowered blue idiots in his bed.





	Three's No Crowd

**Author's Note:**

> **Inspired by the 99th Ravager Faction/Kragdu Discord, of course.**

When Kraglin says this is a dream come true, he means it. He's been fantasizing about this since...

Well, not since he first met her. Back then, he was too busy fretting about how he had kickstarted a mutiny, ousted his captain, and irreparably destroyed the closed thing he's ever had to a relationship, all within the space of an hour.

But the attraction is there nevertheless. It permeates his lower abdomen, curling like ink drizzled in water as Nebula details how she will hunt down the man she calls _father_.

Maybe it's because it's been such a long time since he had a conventionally attractive chick in groping distance who ain't made of silicone. Maybe it's because he's had a dry spell lately (a nice way of saying that since Quill left, the smack of Kraglin's palm against the captain's door panel has been followed in swift succession by the buzzing lock tone, and the grumpy fap of his hand). Or maybe it's because she's as deadly and dangerous and blue as someone else Kraglin knows.

Someone who, at this point in time, is languishing in the Eclector's smelly bilges, and is due to be posted back to his masters like a piece of lost property. All because Kraglin can't keep his mouth shut.

Kinda hard to nurture anything but self-hatred after that.

However, while Kraglin doesn't expect anything to germinate from the seeds sown as Nebula strides to the escape pod, having cemented her lack of interest in hats or _making girls go ooooh_ , his subconscious has other ideas. It plucks an arpeggio up the wire that connects cock-and-balls to brain. And when he next sees her, leaping into the Quadrant with the planet crumbling under her heels - that internal chord crescendos until it drowns out Kraglin's heart.

Fuck. He has a type.

Hence: the dream.

First time he has it, Yondu's in a post-decompression coma. This assuages precisely none of Kraglin's guilt.

The captain is alive though, which is more than Kraglin let himself hope for as they reeled open the airlock hatch and pulled Quill inside, Yondu an iced-over mound of leather.

The dream is hazy and lurid-bright. Kraglin doesn't remember much of it except blue, and two mouths, and two soft little holes that engulf however many fingers he feeds them. Well. Four holes technically, given the lovely surprise that'd been waiting for him first time he peeled open Yondu's pants, and assuming Nebula has a similar arrangement.

Minus the dick. Probably. It's never wise to assume.

Kraglin's own cock, which he wakes to find back-curved and leaking over his belly, forming a moist, humid tent in the sheet, takes that as its cue to go off like a blaster before he can even start swearing.

Honestly. His cap'n's unconscious – ain't no ETA on when he'll wake. And Kraglin's...

What? Salivating in his sleep at the thought of eating him out?

Or had it been Nebula he'd been eating out, while Yondu pressed the thick helmet of his dick against Kraglin's crease – or better yet, crawled onto his lap, sharing a kiss with Nebula as she ground herself open on Kraglin's tongue; the cap'n stretching his pussy folds apart with one hand and guiding Kraglin to rest in slick-dripping, brilliant blue...

His cock looses one final spurt. Kraglin arches, jaw clenched so hard he'd be worried about cracking teeth if the majority weren't already made of tin.

Kraglin crashes. He's daze-eyed, panting, grasping the sweaty sheet on either side.

“Fuck,” he hisses. Then, grouchier: “ _Fuck_.”

He kicks the covers off, not bothering to bundle them for the laundry pile (they’re only a month old; no point rinsing fabric that ain't yet so stiff it cracks when it bends). He lays there a few more minutes, scratching jizz from his beard and glumly contemplating the ceiling.

He's a terrible person.

A mutineering bastard not worth the effort it would take for his cap’n to lug him to the brig – if his cap'n was awake to do so. By all rights, Yondu should shoot him as soon as his eyes open.

But all this self-flagellation ain't helping nobody, and it certainly ain't making him feel any better.

He drags himself from his cot – his old one, from the pre-shacking-up-with-the-boss days, because nothing feels wronger than sleeping in Yondu's bed without him. Then he trots off to make sure the old git ain't died in the night, and left Kraglin to find a bottle of moonshine and an airlock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Looking back, he supposes he has that dream to thank.

Yondu's flat-out in a total-body recompression chamber. An oxygen mask hides the lax unresponsiveness of his face.

Looking at him hurts impossibly more than having him out of sight. While Kraglin forces himself to do it, tallying the damage – the bruise-black blotches of frostbite, the skin that had cracked as his blood puffed with bubbles, the bare scarred chest that Yondu never willingly shows to anyone who ain't bot-hookers or him – eventually he can't stand to look any longer.

It's as he's lumbering back to berth, stifling some yawns and indulging others, that Kraglin hears the click of boots through dim-lit corridors.

It ain't his own echoing back at him. He pauses to check, just in case. But nope, the second pair of footsteps carry on.

The ship's devoid of all but a skeleton crew – five bickering Guardians, one weird bug-girl whose smile is creepier than Kraglin's, a cap'n who's dead to the world or as good as, Kraglin himself, and the second of Thanos's daughters, whose only professed desire is to see her father dead. All of them wait in a limbo as undefined as the results from Yondu's monitors, which have yet to determine whether he'll wake at all.

It's a pretty tense time. Kraglin can acknowledge that, albeit from a distance, because he fears that if he focuses too much on the possibility of a future where there ain't no cap'n by his side, his doubts and terrors will conspire to make it more probable.

But given the high stakes, it's mighty rude of Nebula to sneak away without saying goodbye.

If she's trying to be subtle about it though, that means she's avoiding confrontation. And that means that possibly – just possibly – she's afraid they might convince her to stay.

...Or she just doesn't want to go through the hassle of murdering whoever catches her. Kraglin's tired brain delivers this alternative far too late. He's already out from cover, slouching into the hull-facing enfilade to spot Nebula in the furthest compartment, one boot in the airlock.

She pulls her knife. Sees who it is. Relaxes – but only marginally – and sheathes it with a huff that tells Kraglin that she's fully capable of killing him, armed or otherwise.

“Don't try to stop me,” she says.

Kraglin wouldn't dare – just like he wouldn't dare get between his captain and a trinket, or a prize, or Peter. But when she mutters about finding an artillery stockpile to complement her hunt for Thanos, Kraglin mentions that Yondu has a stash, and can he please have her comm signature so that when cap'n's awake they can all talk business?

Nebula narrows her eyes.

“I shot him in the head,” she says.

She sure did. If Kraglin ain't the forgetting type, he don't place much stock in forgiving either. Both he and Yondu are experienced grudge-holders – mostly against each other. 

“Yeah,” he replies, scratching his mohawk with a chuckle. “An' ya hit the implant. Now, either you got worse aim than I give you credit for, or ya were tryin' to inca... inca-paci... Uh. Not kill.”

She crosses her arms. The bodysuit makes for some distracting curves. Not that she's got many, being of the same athletic breed as her sister. But what she's rocking, Kraglin likes.

“I didn't know how his implant operated. It could've killed him.”

Kraglin grins. He remembers at the last moment to keep his lips over his teeth. His lower jaw brims with dull metal fangs – one for each time Yondu punched him, back before Kraglin realized that when he said _harder_ and _I can take it_ , he meant it.

“Yeah, it could've,” he agrees, resisting the urge to hide his mouth behind a cupped palm as he talks. He ain't used to talking to folks whose dental hygiene can be classified as 'adequate' (as opposed to 'shoddy', or perhaps even 'nightmare inducing').

It ain't never bothered him in the past – partly because replacing teeth instead of brushing them is pragmatic, mostly because Yondu's breath is worse. But all of a sudden, faced with a woman who, while far from spotless, still manages to exude a sense of fluid beauty, all he can think about is when he last took a shower.

Had it been the previous astral-month? Or the one before?

“And he'll be pissed," he continued. "I started the stars-damned mutiny, y’know. I got just as much to make up for." He shrugs. "But Quill's gonna want to take down Thanos at some point, him and his Guardians of the Galaxy.”

Her sneer is gratifying.

“Yeah, issa stupid name, ain't it? Sounds like somethin' from a Xandarian cartoon. But anyway – if I know cap'n...” And he does. Intimately. “He'll want the kid to have back-up for when the time comes. So I'm thinkin' that right now, our interests are aligned. Uh. Professionally, I mean.”

Nebula nods. “Very well. Come here – I will input my comm code into your watch, and you may do the same with mine. We will rendezvous once Udonta has awoken.”

Kraglin forgets to temper his smile; it shows off a tad too much tin. He holds out his watch. “Sounds swell.”

She doesn't reply. Just snatches his chronometer, shifting his forearm to where she wants it and pushing up the sleeve.

Kraglin resists the urge to squirm. He tries for smalltalk.

“So. Uh. How long've you been. Y'know, wanting to butcher yer pa?”

He never knew his, so he don't understand the sentiment. But Yondu professes a desire to murder Quill – and vice versa – whenever they're pissed with each other. He supposes that's fairly common, as far as families go.

Unlike Nebula though, neither have attempted to follow through. Or at least not seriously.

“Since he plucked the eye from my head,” Nebula intones, tapping his watch. She scowls as her finger fails to register on the thermal sensors. She switches to her flesh-and-blood hand – or at least, the one that's coated in synthskin. “And my arm from its socket, and my brain from my skull.”

Kraglin winces. Sore topic. Would it be crass to enquire if any other bits had been included in that mechanizing tally? Definitely.

Is he tempted? Absolutely.

Is he terrified that she'll use his watch to batter his skull concave? Enough to swallow the words.

“M'sorry,” he says. 

“No one has said that to me before.”

“What, 'sorry'?”

She jabs at his watch, as if to make up for that slip of sentiment. Kraglin rephrases.

“I mean, ya must've had people beg ya for their lives. Don't they say ‘sorry’ then?”

Nebula snorts. “They ask only in the hopes that the word will prolong their pathetic existence. You have no such ulterior motive.”

“I could've. I mean, I'm sure ya could kill me pretty easily...” He trails off as her eyes thin. Starts from the top. “But I don't. Nope. Not a single motive here. Don't have none of 'em.”

Doesn't he? Hell, this chick ain't never heard an outright apology before. It's barely a whiff of kindness, and she's already... well, not lapping it up. But Kraglin thinks she'd looked pleased, in a cold and stunted sort of way, before her features smoothed to their usual robot-mask.

As a Ravager, trained to sniff out weaknesses as a matter of survival, Kraglin instantly wonders whether he can exploit this.

No. Poor girl's been used her whole life. Kraglin ain't gonna add to that tally.

 

Once the code is inputted, Nebula seems content to stand so close that Kraglin can tell how they're matched in height (and Yondu's gonna be pissed when he finds out Kraglin fell for a girl who's taller than him). Kraglin tries not to inhale too obviously, but still gets overtones of oil and burnt earth.

“Where's your comm?”

“It's hardwired internally.”

“Oh.” They stand there for a further hour – or at least, it feels like that to Kraglin, as he shuffles his boots and flexes his wrist in her cool metal hold, and tries very, very hard not to look at her breasts.

But then, just as he's about to restart conversation – or at least, another doomed attempt at it – Nebula's finger detaches from his watch. There's a faint click. Kraglin watches with grossed-out fascination as the dataport with which she'd been scanning his chronometer splits into tiny wire-threads. These waft like jellyfish fronds in a current. Then, before his eyes, they reshuffle to form a blue fingernail.

Nebula observes him, inscrutable as ever. Kraglin ain't sure what she's waiting for – him to pull away in disgust? He don't. Just schools his face into a shy lil' smile, making the most of the contact – her fingers round his wrist, her knee an inch from bumping his.

Whether she approves or otherwise, her mission comes first. She steps away.

“There. I have your callsign. You will contact me as soon as Udonta wakes.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

He doesn't even think about it, although his ears heat as soon as it’s out of his mouth.

Nebula looks just as shocked as he is. Then for the first time since he's met her, Kraglin sees her smile.

It's not a particularly nice one. Her face ain't the most mobile, what with all the prosthetics, but it still manages to radiate something predatory. The sort of expression a bilgesnipe might get on its face, were it sizing up a bite-sized critter – which, for anything as large as a bilgesnipe, means most of 'em, Kraglin included.

He grins back. This time, he ain’t nearly so self-conscious about his teeth.

“Be seein' ya?” he offers. She steps into the airlock. The bald dome of her head catches the light, flicking it out in every direction. The steel insets in her face are almost iridescent in comparison to the blue skin surrounding them. Flesh bunches at their edges, a little tender, a little raw.

“Yes,” she says, pinning him with a liquid-black stare before the airlock slithers shut between them. “You will.”

 

* * *

 

 

The good news arrives not seven days later. Yondu’s gonna wake up, and it could be any time soon.

Kraglin figures he'll tell cap’n about this lil' fantasy once the guy's eyes are open (after the obligatory 'thank the stars', and maybe a muttered 'missed ya, boss' and a plea of 'don't do that again', which will be laughed at, mocked, and resolutely ignored the next time Quill gets himself in a crisis).

However, by the time Yondu's eyelids crack, Kraglin has been so busy working out how to entice Nebula to their bed without mortally offending her that he forgets his other blue project is just as much of an ornery shit.

“ _Her?_ Are we forgettin' how she shot me in the head?”

“In the implant,” Kraglin corrects. He wets his lips, and preps the lie carefully before delivery: “She knew it wouldn't kill you.”

Yondu scowls. He wears a loose shirt of a size that suggests it has been borrowed from Peter. Stolen, more likely; although how Yondu managed that when he has yet to stand without assistance is anyone's guess.

He claims he’s only wearing it because he's cold. Ain't true. He ain't been allowed back in his leathers, cause Quill claims a sterile environment is necessary, so that Yondu won't succumb to infection, and that shirt's the only thing between his scars and the eyes of every crewmember aboard.

Kraglin is of the opinion that the grub encrusted in the captain's coat has been with him so long that it forms an integral part of his immune system. But no one asked him, and cap'n ain't dead yet, so perhaps Quill has a point after all.

Despite the extent of Yondu’s recovery, the damage is far worse still. Cap’n looks as sick as Kraglin has ever seen him. He's got bags under his eyebags, and there's medical-grade anti-necrosification cream slathering his pockmarked, frost-scarred hands. More is massaged into the pores on his face every morning, giving him the sheen of a well-lubricated engine component.

But he's still cap'n. Still stunning, in an ugly sorta way. 

And he's deadly as ever. The arrow rests on his pillow, soldered so expertly so that you wouldn't notice the snap-line unless you poured over it with a loupe. The prosthetic juts from his head, proud and tall as a cockatiel crest (so claims Quill. Kraglin ain’t quite sure of what a ‘cock-a-teel’ is, but he figures they must be pretty majestic beasts, to warrant comparison with his captain.)

Yondu ain't said thank you. He'd looked mighty pleased though, and he told Rocket he'd have no choice but to eat him if he kept being so damn sentimental, and everyone knows what he'd meant.

While the arrow and the implant can be fixed with a dash of ingenuity and two very clever little paws, the man behind them is a different matter. As Kraglin hovers by his bedside, Yondu makes an attempt to treat his sickbay pallet like it's his throne on the  _Eclector_ Bridge. He pushes up the headrest so he can assume a regal posture. He doesn't get far. Slumping with a defeated groan, he props his chin on his chest.

“Look, I ain't sayin' no. S'been a while since we took a third, and the girl's gotta lovely figure. An' – well.”

His smirk makes Kraglin's mind flick to what he'd overheard through the comm as Yondu steered his mining rig into Ego’s core.

“ _This is gonna hurt.”_

“ _Promises, promises.”_

“She's enough of a freak to be fun in the sack. But d'you really think she'd be interested in us?”

“I think she might." When Yondu squints at him, Kraglin readjusts the IV line from where it has wound around Yondu's wrist. “You've been out for a fortnight, boss. A lot happens in that time.”

Yondu's jaw drops. “You fucked her  _without_ me?”

“What? No! Y'know we don't do that to each other.”

Sex-bots being the exception. Yondu swears they're fun, what with all those cool vibrate functions and build-your-own genitalia kits and so forth, but while Kraglin's tried 'em out plenty of times, he doesn't quite get the appeal.

“Plus, y'know. You bein' near death an' all. Wouldn't be right.”

“Oh?” Aw hell – there's that ravenous-bilgesnipe expression again, copied and pasted from Nebula. Kraglin feels a twitch against his inseam. “You jerk it, while I was out? You think 'bout my pussy?”

“Always,” says Kraglin, a little too fervently.

Yondu chuckles. “Good boy. Thassit. Now c'mere and show me how much ya missed me.”

That’s one order he’s happy to obey. Kraglin piles onto the bed, ears tinted pink. Cap'n might be in a shirt, but Kraglin is willing to bet there's little on below.

He reaches over the covers, finding where a cock rests on Yondu's thigh, plumping at the attention. Then hooks  _under_ , loving how easily those legs part.

He bites his lip, pressing in until their noses nudge, inhaling the smell of old leather. That ain't quite been eradicated, despite the two weeks Yondu has spent immersed in a vat of medical fluid.

He’s Kraglin’s captain, alright. He’s whole, he’s warm, he’s  _alive,_ and Kraglin’s almost giddy with gratitude, because for once, just once in his life, the cosmos ain’t seen fit to wrench his happiness away.

He dabbles fingertips over the sheet. Strokes down to where it stretches between Yondu’s knees. Then pushes  _in_ , making the sheet crinkle in a steep-sided valley, until he feels moist heat through the synth-weave...

Yondu coughs.

Not loudly. More a wheeze than anything. He glares at Kraglin before he can say anything.

But his face is too blue, and his breaths shudder, and his thighs clench in their determination not to tremble.

Kraglin, indiscriminately stroking balls and slit through the sheet, sighs. He shifts his hand to neutral territory. He fastens the oxygen mask over Yondu's nose, glaring when he snaps his teeth.

“You only just woke up, boss. C'mon. You gotta take this slow.”

“I'll take it slow when I'm dead!”

“Yeah, well. You very nearly were.”

There ain't many snappy ripostes to that.

  _I know? I’m glad I ain’t?_

Yondu doesn’t try. He settles sulkily on his pillow, arms folded. Beneath his shirt, sucky-pads fan across his pectorals in an adhesive butterfly. His breath mists the plastic, ventilator replacing his exhales with an oxygen-rich cocktail of anti decompression-sickness medication. That little puff of fog is, Kraglin is pleased to see, coming more evenly now.

“I could always ride ya while you got the mask on?” he says, not without hope. 

Peter chooses that moment to swagger in, tree on shoulder. His Zune is clipped besides his Walkman, and a cheesy Terran tune is blaring – some nonsense about it being  _time to make a change._

“Hey, dad! Me and Groot've been arguing about which song's our favorite and we need you to judge -”

That's the approximate amount of time it takes for Yondu and Kraglin's position, and the tail end of those words, to percolate Peter's skull. He keeps right on turning, a full one-eighty degrees, borderline military in his execution, and walks straight back out again.

“On second thoughts, I'll ask Gamora.”

Yondu and Kraglin stare at the medbay door as it swings to a close.

“He called you dad,” Kraglin points out.

Yondu shudders. "I  _know._ ”

Is he horrified or delighted? Kraglin can't tell, but he changes the topic anyway, just to be safe. 

“Want me to comm Nebula? Not to... Y'know. Not unless you wanna. But just. Might be a good connection, in future. Ain't nothin' wrong with allying with a Titan's daughter.”

 

“Yeah, Quill's got that one worked out. Heck, maybe we oughta start bangin' the blue chick just so he ain't the only one with tappin' rights on that family.”

“I mean, she’s the only other option. Unless you wanna go after big daddy himself, sir.”

Another shudder. “Never call him that.”

“Yessir.”

“Never call anyone that.”

“Yessir.”

“'Cept me. Occasionally.”

“Gross, sir.” Kraglin budges to claim the pillow beside him, Yondu's thigh knocking comfortably off his own. He brushes the back of his hand, and pulls a face as ointment transfers from blue skin to pale. It's clingy as glue, and smells about as pleasant. “Ugh.”

“Try smearin' it all over yer face then bitch to me, Obfonteri.”

Kraglin peels off the mask, kisses him on the cheek, and does so.

 

* * *

 

It turns out that romancing a Titan's daughter is a knack, and that knack is one which neither Yondu nor Kraglin possess.

They both rely on different styles of charm - if Kraglin's flustery bumbling can be called such a thing. In contrast, Yondu is a menace who will flirt with every critter of fuckable age he meets: all toothy smirks and husky croaks and low-lidded eyes.

Sometimes Kraglin wonders if it's intentional, or if boss has just been blessed with a natural leer. But should Yondu want to lure you between his and Kraglin’s smelly sheets, there's no way you can mistake his intentions. His come-ons are as full-frontal as they can get without being classified as assault.

Kraglin remembers what it's like, to have a drink slop against his arm, to glance up and find a blue face and a bright grin.

Today, the drink is milky rather than alcoholic. That grin is far more snaggly, metallic, and creased around the edges than when it first beamed at Kraglin from over a bar. But it ain't lost none of its charm.

When Nebula squints at the steaming mug, then at the Ravager captain, and enquires whether it's poisoned, Yondu's smile only grows. He speaks loud enough to be heard over the hubbub in this petite, dainty tourist spot, which is serving as common ground for their meet.

“No, sweetheart. Why'd I wanna kill a cute lil' button like you?” 

“I'm taller than you,” says Nebula. Yondu mock-winces, clasping his chest. Kraglin starts for the oxygen mask, dangling around his cap'n's neck, but is waved off with an eye-roll. “And you have ample reason to murder me, after I shot you on Berhert. Poison will have little effect though. My father ensured that I would not be susceptible to it - and he tested to this end, most extensively.”

And with that, she lifts the cup and sniffs.

It's a delicate thing. Ain't space for all of her fingers to cram in the hand-hold, so her pinky is forced to stick out perpendicular, accidentally genteel.

“I am unfamiliar with this beverage.”

The three of them don’t fit in with the rest of the clientele. They're in Xandar-space, if not on Xandar itself, and the regular patrons tend towards the bookish and the scholarly, courtesy of the Archival Campus next door. The Guardians are here to do something, with someone, for some undisclosed amount of money (they'd mumbled when Yondu asked, which means it ain't much).

But he ain't put his foot down. Firstly because Quill was smart enough to wait until he was in the throes of a coughing fit before popping the question - “can-we-borrow-the-shuttle-to-go-to-the-Archival-Campus-and-do-some-pro-bono-please-and-thank-you” - and secondly because Nebula mentioned she would be passing through the region on their last comm-call.

She hasn't disclosed where she's staying. Kraglin assumes she's a nomad: always on the move, hopping her m-ship from place to place, powering down under bridges and in doorways, if she needs to sleep at all. But should she decide to make a night-stop on this planet, she'll be lucky to find a hotel that ain't mysteriously full-booked. She sticks out like the metal thumb that pushes through the synthskin on her left hand.

The rest of her has been poured into the tight purple bodysuit that gyrates through Kraglin’s wetdreams. Metal surrounds one eyeball, as if it erupted from the socket last time she was squeezed

None of the waiters have asked to collect their order. Kraglin suspects they're drawing straws.

Yondu takes the chair besides Nebula, snapping his fingers for Kraglin to hover behind her. Kraglin, a little more traditional in his notions of wooing, gives Nebula a shy smile and a waggle of his fingertips.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“The drink,” continues Yondu, scooching the saucer over so she has something to place the cup on, “is 'I ain't got a clue' with a shot of 'smells real sweet.' Nabbed it off a table as we came in. Kid’s sat over there, giving me the stink-eye.” He points to a frumpy Shi’ar, who shakes out her feathers and directs her glower to the datapad on her lap. "Bottoms up, sweetheart.”

“Ravagers,” mutters Nebula. But she drinks. Beneath her frothy milk-moustache there's a softness that indicates she's trying to relax muscles that were never designed for smiling.

Kraglin motions to her upper lip. “You, uh. Got a lil’ something.”

“Hm.” Her press of the napkin to her face is in no way dainty – more an efficient scrub. But there's an elegance to her movements that makes Kraglin want to watch her forever. “Shall we talk business then, gentlemen?”

“Why? No time for pleasure?” Yondu steals the cup. Just reaches out and takes it, like he does with damn near everything he wants. His nails click on the china as he raises it to meet his grin.

Nebula makes an abortive snatch. When he winks at her over the rim, she curls her fingers into a fist, and sneers as if she's imagining planting it in Yondu's face, crushing the fancy lil’ cup between her knuckles and his mouth.

“Don't worry,” Kraglin stage-whispers. “Cap'n's just messin' with ya.”

“I do not like to be messed with. That was my drink.”

Yondu swallows. Burps, and swirls the cup so they can all hear liquid slapping the insides. “I gave it to ya.”

“You are not supposed to rescind gifts.”

“Ravager,” Yondu reminds her, flashing fangs between his slurps. Dammit, but they're supposed to be seducing her, not pissing her off. Kraglin gives him a stern look – as stern as he dares. Yondu (of course) finds it hilarious. While he doesn't take the seat on Nebula's other side – cap'n ain't yet motioned that he’s allowed to sit – Kraglin does lean forwards, thin shadow spilling over her, and attempts to steer their conversation back on track.

“Y'look, uh, nice.” 

“I... nice?”

Yondu creaks back on his chair and chortles. Kraglin shrinks until his collar brushes his cheekbones. “C'mon boss, ain't that funny.”

“Nice,” Yondu gasps. “ _Nice_.” He slaps the table, then his own leg, rocking the whole contraption and almost sloshing his twice-stolen drink. Nebula cranes away with a curled lip. But before she can push out her chair and excuse herself, Yondu flicks off his mirth with a showman's speed. In its place is...

Well, Kraglin can't put a name to it, not without his groin cup getting tight. But it's hot and it's fierce, and it's so damn intense that he thanks the stars it's turned on Nebula, because if he was the recipient his knees would be buckling.

“Chick like this ain't  _nice_ , Kraggles. She's flarkin'  _stunning_. Like a stars-damned supernova, before it wipes ya out in a fireball.”

“You would be dead, in that scenario.”

“But I'd die with pure beauty bein' the last thing I saw.” Leather creaks as Yondu resettles. The weeks he's been laid up in bed haven’t let his coat stiffen completely. But it still requires wearing in – just like Yondu himself. When he opens his mouth to continue his drawling serenade, all that comes out is a cough.

“Aw fuck.”

Nebula is first to react.

She grabs the mask. Its plastic tube coils around the arrow-ornamentation on Yondu's shoulderpad, attached to a miniature oxygen tube in his pocket.

Yondu raises an arm like he's gonna fend her off. But the second, wetter bout of hacking stops him.

Kraglin glowers at the few idjits who ain't yet vacated their tables in favor of Ravager-free establishments.

“Let her help ya, cap'n,” he says. It's not an order – Kraglin very rarely issues those (and only on his captain's whims, when Yondu wants him to take the lead). But there's enough of a plea in his tone to make Yondu think twice about whistling, as Nebula holds the oxygen mask an inch from his craned-back face.

Gradually, Yondu relaxes. Or relaxes as much as he can, shoulders still heaving with swallowed coughs.

He presses his nose into the shaped plastic mold of his own accord. And although he's still glaring, his chest gradually stops spasming and the navy in his cheeks recedes to cooler blue.

Kraglin grins. He pulls Yondu's forehead sideways to rest on his heart.

Yondu presses against the leather for all of five seconds. Then he butts forwards, prosthetic ramming Kraglin's sternum. 

Not in public.

Never in public.

 _Or what?_  Kraglin wants to ask. They've already lost every man in their faction. Why should they hide?

Then he notices the expression on Nebula's face. He isn't sure how he notices, as that face is as revealing as a chunk of hull plate. But whatever subconscious cues are tipping him off, they’re insistent.

Nebula ain't happy.

“You two are,” she starts. She glances at Kraglin, then averts her glare out the window. “Nothing. I should leave.”

Twin plumes form under Yondu’s nostrils, fogging the inside of the oxygen mask when he snorts. “Aw. Is somebody jealous?”

This time, Kraglin  _hears_ the machinery creak inside Nebula's fist. “I would say that it is beneath me to hit a sick man, but very little is beneath me, nowadays.”

 Kraglin knows exactly what Yondu is going to say. He knows it, and he knows he's powerless to stop it, but hell, if he ain't gonna try...

“Don'tchu -”

“I could change that.”

“-dare. Dammit, cap'n.”

Nebula, to her credit, doesn't punch the oxygen mask so hard it becomes a permanent fixture on Yondu's face. But Kraglin suspects that it’s close. She looks him up and down, almost calculating in her perusal, and performs an indolent blink. When her eyelids come up, they stop at half-mast.

“I like a man who is willing to kneel.”

Yondu jerks his chin at Kraglin, who finds himself the focus of not one but two gazes, one of which is shamelessly sultry, while the other is... Well, Nebula's.

“More a jockey than a steed myself, honey. But if you wanna try out my buddy for size...”

This is the moment where Quill will saunter in and ruin everything.

Kraglin keeps a suspicious ear trained on the cafe door, expecting the bell to jangle. But when it does, it's only to herald the last few customers filing out, after exchanging nervous glances with the wait staff, tipping generously in sympathy. 

Yondu and Nebula watch each other, coming to some silent agreement. Kraglin can almost hear the sparks. Then Yondu casually crooks his fingers, motioning for Kraglin to take the step that will place him between them, standing in the gap that separates their chairs. 

Kraglin moves to obey without thinking.

His face is steaming, as if the room temperature has been dialled up and made humid as a sauna. He's seen himself blush so many times – or Yondu's fucked him in front of enough mirrors – to know that his ears are the color of M-ship brake lights. 

“Go on,” Yondu says to Nebula. He has to unseal the oxygen mask so it ain't too muffled and repeat himself, then again when he coughs halfway through. “Which bit you want? Tongue? Cock? Ass? He's up for anything, this one.”

He smacks Kraglin's ass. Ain't much there, but what little meat he has stings deliciously, and the noise cracks loud.

 

“I'm givin' you first pick, so ya better choose wisely. Ain't somethin' I'd offer everyone – but girl, yer so stars-damned fine that ya made this old captain dream of havin' dem fingers in my cunt since ya shot me in the head.”

“Implant,” Nebula says. She doesn't query the cunt. Galactic sex ed is a wide-ranging and complex subject, and there are few species where every single member falls into a binary, not least where that binary is based on reproductive bits.

She's probably assuming Centaurian cisgendered females come with an ovipositor. The truth – that Yondu woke up after a round of experimentation in the Kree labs with new organs down below, spent several years freaking out about them, several more experimenting with them, and finally, in true Yondu-fashion, decided he kinda liked them – is best left for cap'n to reveal in his own time. Kraglin certainly ain't spewing secrets that don't belong to him.

Yondu hauls Kraglin back a pace by his gun harness, so his line of vision ain't obstructed by six feet of eagerly vibrating red leather and bodyhair. He hooks two fingers in his belt loop to keep him there.

Kraglin's mental processes center on the drag down the back of his jumpsuit, from where Yondu's index and middle weigh heavy, pulling the faded leather into a ‘v’ that follows the line of his spine.

“You, me, him. We're already doin' business – why not sweeten the deal with a bit of nookie on the side?”  

Nebula considers it. Despite having made his profession out of starway-robbery, theft and murder, the last thing Kraglin wants is to make her uncomfortable. He clears his throat.

“You, uh, don't gotta, or nothin'.” Then, meeker, just in case that's construed as him trying to give orders: “Right, sir?”

“Sure thing.” Yondu releases the beltloop and spreads his hands wide (Kraglin does his best not to grumble). “Say the word, sweetheart. Yes of no. Then we take this somewhere more private, either to start talkin' payments and timeframes, or to start bumpin' uglies. All depends on you.”

Nebula looks up from where she has been conducting a clinical study of Kraglin's groin cup. The bulge behind it won't be visible unless she's got heat vision, in which case she'll be able to see it pulsing and throbbing in time with his skittering heart.

“How about both?” she asks.

 

* * *

 

 

In short order the three of them are sprawled over the cap'n's bed, all naked bar Yondu's ever-present shirt.

The bed is made for sharing. But it was built with one captain plus one slender-erring person in mind. Now that there are two slender-erring people, as well as that captain, things are a tad crowded.

Kraglin, who has wound up in the middle and is utterly delighted about it, would be the only one who doesn't have a limb sticking off, except that he's stretched out on his back. His long pale toes wiggle happily, far beyond the mattress’ end.

“This is nice,” he says. Neither of them argue.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

While Kraglin and Yondu have taken thirds before, they don't normally let 'em stay. You don't boot out a Titan's daughter though. Especially not one who’s multi-functional - which Nebula proves to be.

She locates their clothing pile and liberates a huffer-cigarette from Kraglin's jumpsuit pocket while he and Yondu are still flat-out, then scrapes her metal thumb off her forefinger until they spark, lights it, and passes it across.

Kraglin offers it to Yondu on instinct. Cap'n takes first drag on the same – then reaches very hurriedly for his oxygen mask.

He shoves the stick blindly at whichever of them can grab it before it can singe a hole in the bedclothes (or Kraglin's chest hair). Once Kraglin's ensured his captain is sucking air safely - though he's glowering at the pair of them something rotten, curled in a spiteful ball on the bed's edge and just  _daring_ 'em to comment – he twists to his opposite side, and waves the smoke stick questioningly at Nebula.

Nebula shakes her head. “If poison does not effect me, neither do drugs.”

“Huh.” It ain't about that, not for him and Yondu (although the effects are certainly pleasant. They slink through Kraglin’s nervous system until every limb feels soggy as wet polystyrene.)

It's a routine, a ritual. One of the many little things they do together, to cement that they are, in fact,  _together_ \- until such time as the universe sees fit to rip them apart, and shoot their ashes through the cosmos in a blaze of glittering dust.

But Kraglin's vocabulary has yet to return to the point where he can put all that into words, let alone coherent sentences.

And Yondu's still choking, so it ain’t like he’s gonna be any help.

Kraglin takes a drag instead.  Smoke sticks in his throat like a swallowed burr. It’s a good blend: foresty and soothing, turning the post-coital drowsiness into a somnambulant fuzz. The shiny holo-label proclaims it to be of regulation quality - which is good, because huffer gets cut with a whole ton of shit nowadays, most of which is more carcinogenic than the sticks themselves. Even when the gold in the Ravager vaults was low enough to show the floor plating, Yondu never skimped on quality control.

Kraglin breathes out. Prickly heat scours the insides of his lungs. He studies Nebula through the curling plume.

She ain't raised a sweat. The skin on her torso and legs follows the pattern on her face – divided into purple and blue stripes, with a visible raised seam, as if the assorted parts have been welded together.

Kraglin wins a shiver when he runs his nails up and down that line. But it's swiftly followed by a snarl, and he has enough experience dealing with a bedmate whose bad memories are entwined with his sexuality to know when not to press.

She looks just as poised as she did back then, when she was riding cap'n's dick – all firm, confident rocks of her hips, controlled with a hint of wildness. Her face had betrayed nothing except that her features hadn't been designed with expressiveness in mind.

Cap'n himself had been too breathless to take a more active part. He'd seemed grumpy about it, until Kraglin enticed him to spread his legs wider, and settled so Nebula's undulating blue-purple ass fit into the hairy dip of his belly, and his cock plumped over the moist folds of Yondu's puss.

He'd groped her, on her command. She'd had him gather hungry handfuls of breast, squeezing and lifting, rubbing them together until he forgot he was listening to orders and just  _moved_ ; bucking under her, into Yondu. The pair of them had ridden the cap'n out until his pants steamed over the inside of his oxygen mask and the squelching tack of their groins suddenly became wetter.

All in all, it had been good. Pretty darn near incredible, in fact. He just hopes it was as fun for Nebula as it was for them.

He shifts, sweaty thighs sticking to the sheets, and sucks another lazy mouthful of smoke. He and Yondu are so accustomed to peaking each other that who's to say her wants didn't go neglected?

Sure, Yondu'd snuck a finger down, and stroked her with the practised flicks of one who's been operating that equipment for decades. But he'd also passed out when he came, reminding them all why strenuous activity is heartily discouraged by medical professionals post-space-exposure. 

Kraglin is so used to timing their orgasms that the sudden clench, pull, and release of his pussy had spurred him over before he even realized Nebula wasn't shouting in pleasure, but was rather slapping Yondu's face and trying to ascertain whether or not he had a pulse...

...All in all, it had been rather frenetic for the three of them. While he might not consider himself the chivalrous type, Kraglin is still ashamed to admit that there's a high chance Nebula didn't get off.

He gestures down her body with the huffer-stick. Its tip is a fluorescent orange pointer, and when he waggles it, it leaves streaks over his vision, too bright for the low light settings. Her stomach is flat and toned, where his is concave and Yondu's has a generous portion of softness overlaying the muscle, which Kraglin loves to fondle when they're alone. Further down, her abdomen dips into another worm of metal, over where most bipedal species situate their womb.

Kraglin doesn't touch, doesn't ask, doesn't let his gaze linger. He's getting the knack of her emotional tells, stoic as they are – that, or he's projecting them onto her. But he thinks she’s thankful.

Below that silvery streak, there's a firm swell of skin, slit at its center. It's harder than Yondu's mound: more like rubber than flesh. It's also smooth where his is just a touch scaly, and, unlike his, as Nebula had explained as if she were pointing to diagrams in a biology book, allowing Yondu to push a curious spit-damp finger inside her before she clambered aboard, it doesn't self-lubricate.

Luckily, Kraglin likes whatever his cap'n's in the mood for. Whether that's Kraglin's tongue in his cunt or his dick up Kraglin's ass, or even, on special occasions, his cap'n bending forwards open the bed and prising at his own hole with a blunt wet digit, before ordering Kraglin to  _c’mon in and quit yer time-wastin’;_  they've always got lube on hand.

Slap a palmful over Yondu’s dick, let Kraglin dunk his fingers and slide ‘em into her while she runs that icy metal thumb up and down his quivering prick, watching him like she’s cataloging every whimper, and they’d been all set to go. Kraglin doubts she chafed.

But still, he's gotta know...

“If poison and drugs don't work on ya,” he starts. Squeezes Yondu's ass for reassurance, as it's the nearest bodypart not hidden under leather. He earns a flurry of kicks that are either intended to be too gentle to damage, or which indicate cap'n is in weaker condition than he’d thought. “Does. Y'know. This?”

The cigarette’s red bud circles the three of them, Yondu to Kraglin to Nebula, and back again. Nebula gets the gist.

“Yes.” She crunches to sit, moving with a grace Kraglin wouldn't master if he had taken up ballet instead of pickpocketing at the tender age of four. “And next time, I expect to orgasm first.”

“Yes ma'am.”

Yondu finishes coughing. He’s got his sleeve draped over his eyes, and Kraglin's seed leaks from between his legs.

“Permission granted,” he croaks. He doesn’t snatch for the huffer stick again (Kraglin suspects that’ll be his first order once Nebula’s out of the room, and is smoking double-time to compensate.) Yondu just lays there and catches his breath, and rubs his knuckles against his tight-wheezing chest, as if the extra compression is going to help.

More jizz coats his cock. Its consistency is gummier than Kraglin’s own water-cannon impressions: milky-white and clinging in strands. As Nebula stoops to retrieve her jumpsuit, Kraglin spies a matching streak on the bulge of her inner thigh muscle, and sends up a quick prayer for the relaxing effects of the huffer stick, which is the only thing keeping him from popping another hard-on.

She's dirty, now that she's a vagrant. But despite the grime she’s trekked in on her boot-treads, and the drizzle of blood over her jumpsuit, there's still something about her that shines.

Kraglin can't stop staring, as he tries to piece together what that might be. He watches her dress until he feels the heat against his knuckles which means the smoke stick has burnt to the quick.

Nebula doesn't say goodbye. But Kraglin checks his watch the next morning to find she's scheduled herself in under the heading 'business meeting', two astral-weeks from now. He supposes she doesn't need to.

 

* * *

 

 

The business meeting is very productive. As in: Yondu sits on Kraglin's face and squirts all over his beard, again and again, pulsing and quaking with it. Kraglin tongue-flutters him through a series of multiples that his dick can't keep up with, and his still-recovering heart probably shouldn't be forced to.

He's got Nebula to grab for balance though. She squats on Kraglin's cock, facing his cap'n, in a perfect mirror of his position.

Kraglin has never wanted to astrally project as much as he does then. Because Nebula tries to turn Yondu's head to hers and he tries to turn hers to his, and their jaws clonk and they glare before melting against each other in a kiss that has Kraglin shuddering.

But equally, there's nowhere in the world he'd rather be than here: in this moment, in this place, beneath them.

Both of them lean to keep their genitalia respectively flush to his groin and his dripping face. Yondu doesn't sit on him. That’s for the best - he runs the risk of breaking Kraglin's nose. But his pussy quivers on Kraglin's tongue, silky as a petal. Kraglin tickles his oversensitized clit, dancing under its hood, while Yondu grinds over his front teeth, balls slapping his chin. He cums - again - with a last wet gush, and a cuss that's hissed into Nebula's mouth.

Kraglin's got that burn in his jaw that promises conversation will be difficult tomorrow.

He ate Nebula out first, his cap'n holding him by the Mohawk with his mouth closed over her lips, wetting the rubber in drooling laves.

She tasted interesting. Like licking an M-ship - well scrubbed, of course - or chewing on a unit chit. Cool, staticky, faintly metallic.

That sums up her poise as well. She and Yondu had stood facing each other, Kraglin knelt between them. It gave him the best observation angle as Nebula controlled her urge to roll into the plunge of Kraglin's tongue. 

Kraglin, with his nose digging into her tough, smooth mound, hadn’t been able to watch. But the hand in his hair had tightened, nails scratching his scalp, and he'd heard Yondu purr. She must've looked real stunning. Maybe next time, if Kraglin's good, she'll let him see.

“Good boy,” she'd said afterwards. Yondu repeats much the same sentiments as he heaves himself off Kraglin's numb tongue and pats his slick-streaked cheek. Then, to Nebula, sunk low on Kraglin's prick:

“Squeeze one outta my pet, darlin'. Can't have him feelin' all neglected.”

Considering the amount of blue flesh that's been bared to him as of late, neglected is the last thing Kraglin feels. But if they're going to pamper him, he won't say no. 

Nebula assesses Yondu with that disgruntled expression she usually wears after her sister talks. It ain't the most confidence-inducing, not when she's seated on Kraglin's cock, and especially not since she’s tight enough to take it with her should she decide on a sudden evacuation.

“You don't give me orders,” she says.

Oh. If you lock a lone wolf in a room with a man who loves to be in charge, there's gonna be friction - and not of the sort Kragin’s being treated to right now, as Nebula squelches up and down while staring his cap’n dead in the eyes.

Kraglin considers his options. Then he reclines back, and watches the show.

“I said, you don't give me orders. ”

“Yeah, yeah. I may be old but I ain't deaf. No more orders for you.”

Yondu extracts a smoke-stick from their rapidly depleting post-coital pack. He can't make sparks like Nebula, so he grabs the burner from the bedside table and clicks the button until a flame wobbles from its tip.

His lashes cast shadows against his cheeks, blue muted by warm amber. He feeds the cigarette to the heart of the flame, its other end clamped between his teeth. Then snaps off the lighter and sucks in. He manages to hold the smoke for a full five seconds, before releasing it in a controlled stream.

“Huh. Lungs're doin' better.”

Nebula scoffs. She contracts too, and Kraglin shudders – but he's well-behaved, and he doesn’t interrupt.

If cap’n’s talking, it’s important. And while discipline can be fun (it usually involves cockrings, and Yondu tying him to a chair before self-pleasuring close enough for Kraglin to smell) Kraglin ain’t no brat. He does what he’s told, like any good mate.

“They won't be, if you keep smoking those.”

“Thank ya, princess.” Yondu takes another languid drag. He blows a smoke ring to break over her face. “Didn't know you was so concerned 'bout my health.”

Nebula's nostrils flare. Her body bears down, sudden and without warning. If Kraglin could think about more than  _yes_ and  _more_ in this moment, he might be concerned about it cutting off bloodflow to a part of his body both he and, more importantly, his cap’n, are fond of.

“Don't call me princess,” she growls.

“Ya shot me in the head, girlie -”

“Implant.”

“- and so I'll call ya whatever the fuck I want. Now be a dear an’ see to my boy, would ya? See - I even asked nicely.”

Kraglin kneads the band of purple muscle on Nebula's thighs. He can't get a grip  – she doesn't carry much spare tyre. But he finds himself clutching her nevertheless, head back and jaw dropped to its widest in a soundless, extravagant moan.

Seeing as his hands are otherwise occupied, Yondu takes one last puff of the smoke-stick, then shuffles to press the wet folded paper on Kraglin's lips. He slurps for it desperately, filling his lungs with the gravelly fire as his upwards thrusts – stunted by Nebula's weight, but no less eager for it – jolt faster.

“So, why not 'princess'?”

Nebula, not breaking from her choreographed ride, raises a threatening fist.

“Thought you was above hittin' sick old men.”

“You aren’t so sick anymore. And I'm far older than you, anyway.”

None of them expected that. Yondu sucks on the cigarette as Nebula slides along Kraglin's cock fast enough to hurt. His mind buzzes, pleasure and pain.

_She’s doing this to you. She’s using you. She’s making you hers. Yes ma'am, please ma'am, more ma'am, more._

His whimper is lost beneath the ensuing conversation:

“Well damn. How much by?”

“Fifty years, by my reckoning.”

Yondu whistles. Kraglin tenses on instinct. His cock jerks like he's been shocked, trapped in a slicked blue vice. “Cyborg?”

“Cyborg,” Nebula agrees.

This is fascinating and all, but Kraglin ain't finished yet. Need is a flurry in his lower gut. He whines, high-pitched and horny beyond measure, and receives a shapely blue foot in his face to silence him.

It doesn't smell sweaty – for which he's grateful. When Yondu uses this punishment on him, it's rarely so pleasant.

Yondu stubs out the smoke stick on the bedside table. He winces while he does it; his clit must be needling whenever his bollocks brush. Once the ciggie’s out he straddles Kraglin again – chest this time, not face, pushing Nebula's leg out the way.

Then, with a challenging grin, he lifts one blue tit to his mouth.

“Princess or not,” he says, squeezing the firm palmful. The nipple plumps against his underlip, rubbing the tip of a fang. “I think ya deserve a lil' worship, darlin'.”

From this low angle, all Kraglin can see of Nebula is her head: tipped to the ceiling. Her clenched jaw is silhouetted against the overhead light. Yondu works away under it, kissing her nipples violet, and if it weren't for the shirt, their blues could be merging.

Kraglin runs covetous hands under Yondu's shirt. He strokes scars Nebula ain't yet allowed to see. She's tight around him, and Yondu's heavy on his stomach, cock dragging on Kraglin’s belly hair. He rocks with her, even though it must hurt his poor oversensitized clit, and Kraglin wants to stroke it better, although he knows that’d only add to the torture…

 He’s trapped beneath them. No escape. Just them, his blue bedmates. And the wet slap as he hilts, the faint creak of Nebula’s joints as she rises and falls, the throaty sound of Yondu humming round her captive breast...

“I'm gonna,” is all he manages, before he does.

 

* * *

 

Kraglin bungles it.

Of course he does. How could he not?

If there's one thing he excels at, it's bungling. Telling cap'n off for going soft on Quill? Bungled.

Luring an elegant creature like Nebula, who looks as glamorous as she's deadly even when she’s riding dick, into his and Yondu’s bed? Bungled that too.

Again, it's Kraglin's big mouth that gets the better of him – although considering the view he'd had, he ain't entirely to blame.

Nebula and Yondu move together, knelt on the mattress before him. Kraglin has been ordered to touch no one, least of all himself.

Their hips rock. Yondu's cockhead slides over the metal strip on Nebula's belly, leaving a smear of pale fluid. There’s only skin between them - discounting Yondu’s shirt. It's a sultry, steady undulation, which becomes a synchronized couple's dance and then a competition, each of them matching the other's pace and pushing it on in challenge. When they crash in a kiss, it's all performance.

They're in the captain's cabin. Light splits into its separate colours. Distinct beams are segregated by the array of trinkets piled on every surface, glued down so they don't become projectiles should their shuttle ever barrel roll. The blue of Yondu and Nebula’s skintones clash, merging with reds and greens and buttery yellows, like they're writhing under a disco ball.

Yondu winks at Kraglin, who hisses and wriggles against the bedsheets in the hopes he’ll set 'em off balance and one or the other will fall on his cock. When Nebula notices the direction of his gaze, she gropes Yondu’s ass while staring Kraglin dead in the eye, determined not to be outdone.

Watching them handle one another is the perfect blend of fierceness and danger, as if this truce could spill into a tussle at the slightest provocation.

When Yondu cups her, teasing her open across the heel of his hand, she repays the favor, digging a thumb under his balls to push between slick blue folds. She caresses the little hole, feeling muscles contract below the surface.

“Good. You're not too old to get wet.”

A laugh; a mock-offended snort; a finger pushed inside her. “Thas why yer so dry then, grandma.”

Nebula hisses. But it ain't anger, and Yondu knows it, because his smile creeps ever-more wolfish. He digs forwards, parting the tight, flexible grip. Nebula’s cunt is lined with tiny bobbles. They grip any intruding dick and flare when she cums, as if she's trying to lock her partner inside her. Right now they'll be pulling on Yondu's dry finger like suckers. But Nebula doesn't let the sharpness of the sting overwhelm her.

“Spit on that,” she growls, hooking her own deep, two at once. Yondu sinks lower, legs spreading wide. Kraglin knows Nebula's taller, but there's nothing like seeing it in this situation – cap'n tucked under her chin, implant inches from her nose.

Nebula examines him as he pants, nuzzling her collarbone and the slope of her purple-striped tit. “I said...”

“Heard ya first time, sweetheart.” Yondu extracts himself, as commanded, and he transfers his finger to a different set of lips, inviting her to suck. She does so - but not without twisting her nails cruelly against his g-spot.

Kraglin wonders if she has the data-port fingernail function activated. Probably not. Given how much slick Yondu produces when he gets going, it would be an electrocution hazard – although knowing the pair of them (and it feels good to say that, he realizes, rather than just  _knowing cap'n_ ) they'd be into it.

Kraglin moans, hands jerking for his cock. They abort well before the danger zone. He still receives two furious glares.

“Don'tchu dare, boy,” Yondu growls, rocking over Nebula’s hand. “Y'hear me? Don't. You. Dare.”

Kraglin doesn't.

Nebula takes Yondu's distraction as her cue to start pumping wetly inside him, making him jolt every time her knuckle bumps his clit. His cock bounces above, thumping off his shirt, and Kragiln knows he's loving it from the way his back muscles tense. The meat around his waist gains definition through the thin shirt. 

Fuck, that's hot. It only gets hotter when, with a last hollow-cheeked suck, Nebula untangles her tongue from Yondu's digits and guides them to probe where she wants 'em most.

And there's fuck-all Kraglin can do but watch, as they grind their hands against each other, tilting to find the best angles, rotating their wrists, moaning into each other's mouths...

He ruts on air. He fists the sheets, then his leg hair, then – when that proves too close a temptation – his mohawk. “Fuck,” he gasps, on the edge of a whine. His cock  _throbs_. “By the stars! By - by Thanos!”

Nebula freezes. 

Yondu doesn't. He keeps up his hungry massage of her clit, scooping slick from the join between Nebula's palm and his body to wet her. But after ten seconds have passed, even he can't fail to notice the stillness of the fingers inside him.

Kraglin is oblivious to all but the heat in his belly, as if someone's dropped a coal there to smolder. His jaw clenches, pulse thrumming so hard that it distorts his tattoos. They wind up his neck like sloppy ink lovebites, ones Yondu loves to mar them with nips until Kraglin has no choice but to steal his neck scarves, and  _fuck,_ but he needs them to touch him...

His legs flex, pushing off the sheets in a bridge. His hands clench and claw, cock bulging in the cool air. He’s so damn  _close..._

“Do not,” says Nebula. Her voice is deadly as the first quiet thunk of debris off a hullplate in a cosmic storm. “Ever. Mention my father in this context again. Do you understand me, Obfonteri?”

Last names.

They crop up when he's in shit – a militaristic disciplinary tactic Nebula has picked up from Yondu. 

Kraglin shuts his mouth with a clack. His head ducks, beard clipping chest hair, and he peeps at the pair of them with a gulp that's almost audible.

“Lesson learned!” Yondu's tone is entirely too chipper. Kraglin can tell from the flex of his forearm that he's rubbing Nebula's clit, slow and sweet, seeking to soothe. “Now honey -” This being one of the rare pet-names which doesn't make Nebula's hackles rise. “I'm thinkin' we need some punishment for our boy. What'chu say? Make him sit on his hands while we fuck proper?” A nudge of his dick along her inseam, a silver-capped and dirty smirk. “Or d'you wanna use his mouth? He's damn wicked with that tongue of his.”

“Or perhaps,” Nebula offers, still glaring at Kraglin. While she sounds toneless as ever, Kraglin hears the hint of a rumble, like a big cat's purr. “You and I ought to lick each other.”

Which is how Kraglin winds up with his thighs pressed tight, balls trapped between and cock bouncing high above, as his cap'n and their lover sixty-nine on the bed, a calculated inch out of reach.

Nebula doesn't have a gag reflex. She demonstrates this in the best possible way.

Yondu chokes. But it's a happy sort of noise, and there's no flailing for his oxygen mask – just a drawn-out moan, uttered into the core of the woman above him, who arches, and rolls her hips, and thrusts her pussy over his flicking tongue.

Kraglin can see her throat bunch. It flexes around the heavy shaft, then bulges as she pulls up, blue disgorging from stretched navy lips. She's methodical and focused – but as always, with Nebula, there's an edge of something wilder contained within, something which no amount of prosthetics or implants of puppeteered brains can diminish. When she pops off Yondu completely, and tucks the cock flat to his belly, letting it leak over the crinkled leather of his undershirt while she noses down below, Kraglin has to shut his eyes so as not to cum there and then.

Yondu drags his face out of Nebula's crotch long enough to growl: “Open, boy.”

Then he reburies himself, after delivering a quick wink to show the anger is feigned. Flush crawls across his cheekbones, as Nebula finds a clit to pamper with soft sweeps of her tongue.

Kraglin can imagine it – Yondu's cunt silky-supple, at odds with his grizzled old mug, Nebula's as tough and sleek as the rest of her. He thinks of the feel of them on his mouth, their tastes. The different parts you have to work the slippery muscle against to make them mewl.

He thinks of how Nebula loves to feel his tongue curl inside her, whereas Yondu falls apart the moment Kraglin treats his clit to a hearty prodding (like Nebula is now, if the noises are any indication). He thinks of their thighs around his face, around his hips, pressed to him from behind; or their fingers: stroking Yondu's juices from his beard, digging into the seam of his ass, tightening on his cock as they guide him inside...

It's a whirlwind of images. He can’t sift the memories from those conjured by his imagination. This relationship is too good to be true, too good to last - but in that moment, with his head in a swirling daze of pretty blue skin and  _cum now, boy,_  he lets himself believe it.

He finishes before the pair on the bed, and without any stimulation but the smack of his dick against his treasure trail when he bucks.

Haze descends like a lowered veil. It blurs his thought processes until everything resounds to the pulse in his spurting prick, and all he can see is  _blue_.

“Good boy,” one of them purrs. Kraglin can't tell which.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s in cap’n’s nature to push. If he spies a big red shiny button, you can damn well guarantee that he’ll wind up prodding it, however clearly it’s labelled  _Danger: Ejector Seat_.

This right here is the perfect example. Yondu pops his question as they lay piled together in the aftermath: sweat and breath mingling, leakage crusting skin, everything reeking of sex and overheated hydraulics and huffer smoke.

The fan does it's best to introduce clean air to this concoction, but it's a doddery old thing. They'll be festering for the foreseeable future. But Kraglin and Yondu are used to it, and if Nebula dislikes the stink, she can always turn off her nasal sensors.

“So, girlie,” Yondu drawls. He scratches at a splash of spunk which managed to squirt under his shirt and dry on his belly. “Ya tell yer sister about us, yet?”

It's a barbed prickle of a query, made for no other purpose than to get a reaction. Kraglin would smack him for it - lightly - if he weren’t so satiated and sleepy-warm. And if Nebula wasn’t carding through his hair, rhythmic and slow, delivering one sharp tug for every three strokes that makes his breath catch and his scalp burn, leg jerking like a dog in the throes of a rabbit-chasing dream. 

Luckily, Nebula doesn't need him to fight her battles. “Have you told Quill?”

“Touché, darlin’.”

She's hogging the coveted middle spot. When Yondu slings an arm across her shoulders, dragging her in to press a bristly kiss to her cheek while Kraglin curls happily against her legs, head on her lap and enjoying the petting, she doesn’t complain. Her mouth even makes that upwards twitch that means she’s smiling.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They don't bother staggering their exits. They’re too old for that shit, the lot of them. While they ain’t gonna sit the Guardians down and hold their hands as they broach this awkward conversation topic, skulking around and fucking in storage closets like randy Ravager-rookies don’t hold much appeal.

Well, it does for Yondu. The Ravagers’ general intolerance of sentiment meant that he and Kraglin spent several years’ worth of off-shifts rocking together in those poky cabinets, which tended to smell of cleaning solvents and the past occupants' bodily fluids.

But while he hadn’t minded it, Kraglin had. When Yondu tries to pull the cap’n card and assert some authority, Nebula reminds him that she’s technically his business partner, and Kraglin meekly mutters something about Yondu not having a crew anymore, and so is it technically correct to call him  _cap’n_? Eventually,  Yondu acquiesces to being outvoted, for the sole sake of shutting them up.

And so. They ain’t gonna hide their  _ménage à trois_.

And it's a good thing they came to that decision before opening the cabin door, because Quill's got his whole darn team stationed outside.

They’re waiting to ask Yondu for yet another detour. When Yondu and Kraglin saunter out, yawning and scrubbing at unshowered armpits through their leathers, they all start babbling at once. They’re trying to convince him that it's of the utmost importance to Yondu's prime directive –  _make money_  – that the Guardians go and liberate a colony of indentured servants in the Outer Rim, for a payout that won’t cover their fuel costs.

When Nebula emerges, that natter trickles to a halt. 

Quill is the exception. He advances, eyes only on Yondu.

“So, in conclusion, we're gonna need the shuttle and the entire weapon load. There's probably not gonna be any profit, as such, but you should still totally let us use your resources because  _think of the poor children_ , and – is that Nebula?”

Nebula waggles her fingers. Her stoicism could rival a rock’s. Kraglin corpses quietly into his fist, and Yondu being Yondu, doesn't bother disguising his cackle.

“The one, the only, boy.”

“What was Nebula doing in your room?”

“Oh,” says Yondu breezily, adjusting his fly zipper. “This and that.”

“I'm this,” Kraglin deadpans. Nebula nods to Yondu.

“He's that.”

The rest of them are still mid-process. Drax examines the trio before shrugging and proclaiming that their union is for the best, as repulsive people should stick together, while Mantis looks rather  _too_ interested. 

Gamora meanwhile, stares at her sister as if she's seeing her in a whole new light. Nebula bristles.

“What?”

Gamora's chin wags silently. Then a smile blossoms. Like Nebula’s, it stretches stiffly around her cybernetics, and makes the angles of her cheekbones a little less reminiscent of knife blades.

“I'm happy that you are happy,” she says.

Rocket pads up to Yondu, Groot on his shoulder. He tugs his pant leg for attention.

"I am Groot."

“Whassat?”

“She shot you in the head, man. What the hell?”

Yondu shrugs. His eyes flick to Nebula, teeth bared in the smuggest of his many, many grins. “Implant. Right, girl?”

“Right,” Nebula agrees. She doesn't take their hands as Yondu leads the way to the cockpit, where he and Quill can argue out the fine points of this job with data pads and graphs and lobbable trinkets at their disposal.

They ain't got that sort of relationship. Kraglin doubts they ever will. But she falls into stride besides Kraglin, nudging her metal shoulder off his flame patch.

The pair of them watch Quill trail Yondu, walking backwards so he can goggle at his bedmates while jabbering.

“B-b-but she's like, half your age!”

“Double it, actually.”

“But that means – shit. Gamora, how old are you?”

Yondu smacks the back of his head, jolting the everpresent headphones to dangle. “Don't ask a lady that!”

Kraglin opts not to mention that Yondu did the exact same thing last night. He lets his bicep brush Nebula's as they walk. Their fingertips catch for the briefest of moments before they separate, then catch again, touching and parting with every step in a mutable line of contact.

"But you're getting more action than me!" wails Peter. "That's not fair!"

Kraglin smiles, and spots Nebula attempting the same. They share it, for a blissful moment. Then they look ahead and keep walking.

 She doesn't look at him. He doesn't look at her. But neither of them take the sidestep that would widen the gap between them, and really, that's all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **That's all, folks! Thanks for every kudos/comment. I love you all.**

**Author's Note:**

> **Y'all know how much I love comments - feel free to leave some below! Edited on mobile - please forgive any weird autocorrect fuck ups.**


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